THE UNSEEN MAN (Luna’s POV)
1913 Words
The after-party smells like gasoline and champagne.
A weird mix — raw and reckless — just like the kind of night that almost ended with me on fire.
The underground warehouse that doubled as a racetrack is now transformed. Neon lights flicker against the metal beams, engines hum in the background, bass from the speakers rattles the walls. Everyone’s celebrating the rematch — my victory — though it doesn’t feel like one.
Because he’s not here.
Rogue.
The masked man who drove his car into a wall to save me.
I keep scanning the crowd, half-expecting that black leather silhouette to emerge from the shadows — the voice that haunted my comms, the one that taunted and warned and, weirdly, protected me all at once.
He’s not supposed to get to me like this.
But he does. Every rev of an engine sounds like him breathing against my neck.
“Luna!”
Cass, my mechanic-s***h-roommate, waves a beer bottle from across the room. Her hair’s tied in messy knots, her smile loud enough to shake the room. “You won! Girl, you freaking won!”
I raise my glass in a halfhearted toast. “Yeah. Barely.”
She frowns. “Barely? He literally wrecked his ride for you!”
That’s the problem.
He shouldn’t have.
I slip outside, ignoring the pulsing crowd and the flashes of phones. My boots echo against the pavement. It’s quieter here — the night air heavy with smoke and the faint metallic scent of burnt rubber.
The parking lot still has the scars of the explosion. Twisted barriers. Melted paint. The faint scorch marks where his car took the hit.
He was reckless. Or maybe he planned it.
I don’t know which thought scares me more.
I close my eyes, leaning against my car — the one he saved. My reflection in the windshield looks different tonight. Not the same girl who used to race for thrill or money or escape.
Now I race because of him.
Or maybe against him.
“Looking for someone?”
The voice is deep, smooth — like warm velvet cutting through the chill.
I turn around.
And there he is.
Except… not really.
No mask. No leather. No shadows. Just a man in a tailored charcoal suit that fits him too perfectly. His hair is slicked back, his watch gleaming under the streetlights. There’s calm in the way he moves — like the world slows down for him.
Adrian Cross.
That name echoes from the whispers in the circuit — a rich investor, rumored to own half the underground’s best machines. He’s the kind of man who doesn’t watch races. He buys them.
“I wasn’t looking for you,” I say, crossing my arms.
He smiles — small, polite, but sharp enough to cut. “And yet here I am.”
He steps closer, stopping just enough to respect the distance. His eyes flick to my car. “Impressive run. That final drift — risky. You could’ve lost traction.”
“I didn’t,” I answer, tone clipped.
“No. You didn’t.” His gaze lingers — not on me, exactly, but through me. “You like driving on the edge, don’t you?”
“I like winning.”
“That’s not the same thing.”
The silence between us crackles, charged and strange. Something in the way he looks at me feels familiar. Like I’ve been under that gaze before — unseen, judged, studied.
“You don’t look like someone who hangs around racetracks,” I say, breaking eye contact.
“And yet I always find myself near the finish line.”
His reply lands too easily. Too perfectly.
He hands me a card — matte black, embossed with his name. Adrian Cross Motors.
“What’s this?” I ask.
“An opportunity.”
I arch a brow. “I don’t do contracts. I do cars.”
He chuckles softly. “Then maybe you should do both.”
I hate that it sounds like a challenge.
I hate that part of me wants to accept it.
The air between us tightens again. I can’t tell if it’s the engine oil in the air or the way his eyes keep studying every inch of my face, as if he’s mapping it.
“You remind me of someone,” I murmur before I can stop myself.
His smirk falters just enough to betray something — something that flashes behind his calm, like lightning behind clouds.
“Do I?” he asks, voice lower.
“Yeah. Someone who hides behind too many layers.”
He leans forward slightly. “And what about you, Luna Vale? What do you hide behind?”
My chest tightens. The way he says my name — too smooth, too confident — makes me want to step back, but I don’t.
Instead, I meet his gaze head-on. “Engines. Speed. The noise. Keeps things simple.”
He hums, amused. “You mistake noise for silence. That’s dangerous.”
“So is pretending to care.”
He laughs under his breath, like he didn’t expect me to bite back. “I don’t pretend.”
“Everyone does.”
He takes another step closer — close enough for me to smell faint traces of smoke and sandalwood on him. The scent curls around me, unwanted but intoxicating.
Then, softly, almost like a confession, he says,
“Maybe I just like seeing what happens when control meets chaos.”
And for the first time that night, I forgot to breathe.
For a man like Adrian Cross, silence isn’t absence — it’s strategy.
He looks at people the way a chess player studies his next move — calm, patient, terrifyingly precise.
And right now, I’m the board.
He stands close enough that I feel his composure pressing against my nerves. Not his body, just the weight of him — the quiet certainty that he’s used to getting exactly what he wants.
“You think I need saving?” I finally ask, forcing my voice to stay even.
“I think,” he says slowly, “you’re too used to doing everything alone. That kind of independence is… admirable. And dangerous.”
“Danger’s my comfort zone.”
His smile deepens, small but deliberate. “Then we might get along.”
Something about the way he says we makes my stomach twist. I hate it — the curiosity, the pulse that speeds up without permission. I hate that he’s so composed while my thoughts are already tripping over themselves.
“So what’s this opportunity you’re offering?” I ask, brushing off the heat crawling up my neck.
“I invest in drivers who make impossible look routine,” he says. “You have potential. Raw, unpredictable — it needs refining.”
“And what do you get out of it?”
“Control.”
The word hangs in the air between us — too heavy, too deliberate.
I raise a brow. “You don’t look like the type who settles for just control.”
He leans in slightly. “Maybe I like chaos… when it has a purpose.”
For a second, I forget the streetlights, the cars, even the lingering smell of asphalt. There’s just his voice — smooth, deliberate — like he’s trying to memorize the rhythm of my breathing.
I clear my throat, step back. “You talk like this to all your drivers?”
“No. Just the ones who make me forget what I’m supposed to say.”
The honesty in his tone catches me off guard. My guard slips — just a fraction — enough for my thoughts to flicker back to him. The man behind the mask.
The same impossible tension — that invisible string — pulls tight again.
It’s ridiculous. Adrian Cross and Rogue couldn’t be more different.
Rogue was chaos — fire and danger and reckless thrill.
Adrian is control — calm water over something deep and unseen.
And yet, both make me feel like I’m standing on the edge of something I can’t name.
“I’ll think about it,” I say, taking the card from him.
He nods slowly, but his eyes don’t leave me. “Do that. But don’t wait too long. The world moves fast — people who hesitate get left behind.”
“Good thing I’m faster than most.”
He smirks, finally turning to leave. “We’ll see.”
His footsteps fade, but the imprint he leaves behind doesn’t.
I stand there, fingers tightening around his card, trying to shake off the strange weight of his presence.
---
Later that night, I lie awake in my small apartment above the garage, the hum of the city seeping through the thin walls. My phone buzzes.
A message.
No name. Just a familiar encrypted number I haven’t seen since the last race.
> Rogue: You shouldn’t trust men who offer contracts in the dark.
My heart stutters. I stare at the screen.
> Luna: Funny. I thought you were the one who preferred shadows.
There’s a pause — long enough for my pulse to start climbing.
> Rogue: Shadows tell the truth. Light just blinds people into comfort.
I exhale slowly, gripping the phone tighter. Whoever he is, he still knows how to crawl under my skin.
> Luna: You disappeared after the explosion. Thought you were dead.
> Rogue: I don’t die easily. Neither do obsessions.
I freeze. The word hits deeper than I expect.
> Luna: You call this an obsession?
> Rogue: Don’t you?
I don’t answer. My reflection in the dark window says enough — eyes wide, breath shallow, like I’m caught between adrenaline and something far more dangerous.
A soft buzz. Another message.
> Rogue: You felt it. On the track. Don’t pretend otherwise.
He’s right.
That electricity wasn’t just adrenaline. It was something else — a pull I didn’t understand.
And now there’s Adrian, with that same quiet magnetism, the same infuriating calm that makes me want to unravel it.
It’s impossible. And yet… it’s all too familiar.
---
The next morning, I show up at the garage early, hair tied up, coffee in hand, pretending I’m not still replaying last night’s conversation.
Cass bursts in, waving a tablet. “Girl, you’re trending again. The rematch footage — ten million views overnight!”
“Guess the internet likes explosions.”
She laughs, then pauses. “You look tired. Didn’t sleep?”
“Barely.”
“Still thinking about him?”
“Which one?” I mutter before realizing what I said.
She raises a brow. “Excuse me?”
“Nothing.” I force a grin. “Just engines on my mind.”
“Uh-huh.”
Before she can press more, my phone buzzes again.
Same encrypted number.
> Rogue: You shouldn’t have taken his card.
I stare at the screen, my pulse quickening.
> Luna: You watching me?
> Rogue: Always.
---
The garage suddenly feels smaller — walls closer, air heavier.
I look out the window toward the street. A sleek black car drives by slowly.
Tinted windows. No plates.
I tell myself it’s coincidence.
But deep down, I know better.
Adrian Cross might have offered me a deal in the light.
But Rogue — whoever he truly is — never left the shadows.
And both of them are watching.
Maybe they’re not two men at all.
Maybe they’re just two sides of the same obsession.
And I’m the flame caught in between.
- Writer
